White Path


We burst through the ruined doors and run into the church, cackling and whooping and damning all gods – all idols are false to us – and we lift the wine bottles inches from our mouths so the liquid tumbles carefree over our lips, our teeth, our jaws and necks.  Sprinting down the nave, I smash one over the pews and slash at an itch on my thigh.  The leg spasms and tries to collapse.  I feel warm gloves creeping down past my knee.

She leaps onto the altar and skids on the cloth, sending a golden crucifix flying, her ankle poised millimetres from disaster.  I’m hobbling along, even as the pain is beginning to creep.  She leaps down and finds the spiral staircase to the organ keys, whilst I lay myself prostrate on the cold stone altar like a living tomb.

L____ hammers the keys in a sing-song symphony.  All the turrets and columns around me are trembling to this cacophony of deep burbles and rasps.  I squint in the darkness and can see them dancing, pogoing in unison.

We knew there were hours left.  Then we heard it was minutes.  Everyone chose their way to die.  We smashed up a shop and stole a crate of wine.  The church grows darker.  She rushes to my side, kisses my forehead and gasps you’re bleeding!  Laughing.  We embrace.

The bomb has already been dropped.  Above us, the organs pipes begin to groan in unison as the shockwave rushes through them.


I love….

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

2 thoughts on “White Path”

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